The Tycoon's Temptation. Renee Roszel

freckle-faced Harry Browne in her mind. The heart-tugging, chipped front tooth that showed itself when he grinned. The hole in the knee of oversize jeans, and the backward Chicago Cubs ball cap planted over scraggly red hair. All in all, Harry was a sweet wad of little-boy perfection. She’d agonized over having to lay off his single mom from her job on the kitchen staff. At least she’d managed to find JoBeth Browne work at the nearby supermarket.

      Focusing her attention on dislodging two quarters from a hip pocket, Elaine tugged open the mammoth cherrywood door. She extracted the change from her jeans—two quarters and a linty, gray button. The plastic button didn’t look familiar, and from the lint clinging to it, she had a feeling it hadn’t been missed from wherever it belonged. Shoving it back in her hip pocket, she said, “Here you go, sweetie-pie. Thanks for…” She held out the money, looked up, her sentence dying a quick death.

      Instead of the twelve-year-old, chipped-toothed moppet she expected to see, a much larger figure loomed on the stone porch. At the moment she found herself staring in the vicinity of a man’s chest. A surge of feminine awareness coursed through her and she instinctively moved back a step, sensing something—or someone—out of the ordinary.

      Backlit by a pale winter sun on the verge of setting, the towering stranger was clad in a black cashmere trench coat. Impressively built, his six-and-a-half-foot frame almost filled the stone archway. Though Elaine was five-eight, and far from anorexic, she seemed to shrink by half, and felt peculiarly fragile.

      Though her glimpse had been a paltry second or two, she felt something she couldn’t quite put a name to. It was the sort of awe one might get when gazing at a mighty fortress—unconquerable mortar and stone. What an odd thought to have about a flesh-and-blood person! She shook herself and focused on the man’s face.

      His eyes drew her first, the deep blue of a clear night sky. Heavy-lidded with thick, ebony lashes, they held a striking allure that stirred something deep inside her. At first glance they seemed like two pools of boundless darkness, yet as she stared, she sensed more than saw, a hint of heat in their depths. It was like being conscious of a faraway cabin with a welcoming fire. Yet at the same time being filled with fear that the warm haven might be too distant to be reached before succumbing to the wintry chill. That unmistakable reserve, that “stand back” quality, intimidated her. She swallowed, startled to notice her throat had gone bone-dry.

      Those deceptively sleepy eyelids slid down slightly, narrowing his gaze. Well-formed lips curved in a wry grin for a couple of heartbeats before he dropped his gaze. Lifting hands swathed in supple, black leather, he began to remove his gloves, tugging one finger at a time. She watched the slow, deliberate movements in some kind of weird trance.

      Once he’d removed the gloves, he placed them together, folded them fingers-over-palm, then deposited them in his overcoat pocket. When he finally resumed eye contact, he lifted a hand. “You’re welcome,” he said, pinching the silver she held between his fingers. With hardly any effort he extracted the coins and tossed them in the air. They glittered for an instant before landing with a light ka-chink in the center of his palm. “People rarely meet me at the door with money and endearments.” He pocketed the change.

      His pleasant baritone registered more on Elaine’s spine than in her consciousness. A tingle frolicked up and down her back at the throaty sound. But the words were jumbled, making little sense. Obviously her mind wasn’t functioning up to par. She blinked several times in an attempt to jump-start her brain cells.

      After a third and forth blink, one thing managed to get through. He was making fun of her. The next fact that registered was that he’d actually taken fifty cents she couldn’t afford to toss away.

      Her momentary mental lapse ended and she experienced a wave of annoyance, giving him a critical once-over. Besides the expensive coat, he wore a high-priced, black suit and polished, hand-sewn wingtips. Her late husband had worn hand-sewn shoes, too, so she knew something about quality men’s wear. That maroon and gold tie he sported cost five hundred dollars if it cost a dime.

      Even though this stranger’s expression had lost even the brief semblance of a grin, his hawkish features were elegant and arresting. His hair, the color of a raven’s wing, was scrupulously trimmed. He was the epitome of an upper-echelon executive. Maybe he was an old Harvard chum of her late husband’s. But if he’d come to pay his last respects he was late by nearly half a year.

      As Elaine scanned his face, she sensed he did not give away smiles freely, but when he did, it would be quite a sight. Though the Chicago temperature on that January day was well below freezing, and several inches of white lingered on the lawn from the last snowfall, that thought about his smile sent an unruly heat racing through her, a heat that started in her belly and spread outward.

      She gulped in a breath of frigid air, confused about where all this unwarranted feminine appreciation was coming from. Grappling for composure, she cleared her throat. “Um—may I help you?”

      He arched a brow as though that should be obvious. “I’m here to see the mistress of the house.”

      She was a little insulted that he assumed she was the help. If the truth were told, Elaine had been forced to discharge the household staff months ago. Sneaking a peek at herself, in jeans, sneakers and the dull brown turtleneck sweater, she faced the fact she didn’t look much like the mistress of a stately mansion.

      She straightened her shoulders. “Please, state your business.”

      He watched her for a moment before replying, “I’d be happy to.” After a pause, he added, “To the mistress of the house.”

      Elaine was annoyed by the man’s impertinence. Well, he could go jump for all she cared. “Then you can’t see her. Mrs. Stuben is a busy woman.” She surprised herself, being so brusque. Not to mention she was lying. After all, he was “seeing” the mistress of the mansion right now. At least she’d be its mistress for fourteen more days.

      Maybe it was this past, horrible year since her ill-conceived marriage. Guy’s sudden change from doting and sensitive suitor before the wedding, then on the honeymoon witnessing his shocking metamorphosis. Before her eyes he’d become a domineering, controlling brute with a sick need to have his ego constantly stroked. Not to mention his jealous rages every time she spoke to another man.

      Then his sudden, tragic death five months ago. And after that, her day-and-night battle to save her Internet business. Maybe all of that together had made up the ingredients for the mortar that had given her this go-to-Hades grit. Or maybe she was simply so exhausted, so world-weary, she didn’t have the capacity to guard her tongue any longer.

      Whatever it was, her outburst caused Mr. Tall, Dark and Trouble to lift an eyebrow at her. That was the second eyebrow lift in as many minutes! “Look, it’s cold,” she said less snappishly. “State your business or move along.”

      He crossed his arms, the pause an eloquent warning. “Please tell the busy Mrs. Stuben, Mitchell Rath would appreciate an audience.”

      “Mitchell Ra…” She’d almost repeated his entire name before she realized saying it aloud would not make the news any more palatable. “You—you’re Mitchell Rath?”

      He nodded, then held out a hand as though he expected her to take it. “And you’re the very busy Mrs. Stuben.”

      He surprised her by referring to her by her name. Resentment heated her cheeks. He hadn’t been taken in by her huffy impersonation of a domestic. “What—what—how do you know I’m Mrs. Stuben?” She refused to take his hand—the hand of the robber baron who was picking the bones of her company, buying her out for pennies on the dollar and stealing her home!

      His gaze roved casually up to the cotton scarf covering her hair, then slid slowly, deliberately, downward to settle on her scuffed and dingy sneakers. After ponderous seconds, the critical excursion apparently complete, his eyes once again met hers. “How do I know you’re Mrs. Stuben?” His lips drooped sensuously at the corners in a facial shrug. “You can’t be the help,” he drawled. “They dress better.”

      He gave her enough time to grasp his